


A Heart That Burns With Fire

by DarlingDearestDemonic



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Background Character Death, Fire, Flashbacks, Gen, Young Dixons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingDearestDemonic/pseuds/DarlingDearestDemonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An elaboration on a scene from Daryl's childhood. Built off of the story that Daryl tells to Carl in episode 6, season 3 (Hounded) in which Daryl loses his mother to a house fire. Includes bad-mouth Dixons and some gore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart That Burns With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I'd set this around pre-teen for Daryl and late, maybe 20-ish for Merle. I could never be sure of how old the two were. Also, when I say that their father was lush I don't mean that he was succulent (I cringe to say it.) I'm referring to the drunken sort of lush. Also, fair warning: there is quite a bit of cursing. What can I say? I was affected by the Dixon attitude when I wrote this!
> 
> Disclaimer: No, I don't own the Walking Dead nor do I profit from it. There. You happy?

Daryl sat on the edge of the bed with his head buried in his hands, staring blankly at the stained carpet beneath his feet. He heard his mother calling his name. She had been doing so for the last hour and a half, her voice never rising above that same cracked pitch. At first she had been calling Merle (the lucky bastard had gone out earlier that morning in search of "alcohol, broads, and cash – the only ABCs that I ever plan on learnin'" as he always said) but then, perhaps sensing the absence of her eldest son, began to call Daryl's name. He really wished she wouldn't and that was not because he found it infuriatingly annoying. No, Daryl knew that the more that she called his name the more he would be drawn into the shy thought that she actually wanted _him_. In all reality he knew that she was probably either too high or too drunk to care about the boy behind the name that she was calling and probably only called it because she had nothing better to do but the child in him still wished that…

He shook his head and squeezed his hair tighter beneath his fingers. _If that dumb bitch doesn't stop calling me_ , he thought as her voice grew higher in pitch, only stopping when she paused to take a drag on her cigarette. He could practically see her: lying in bed with a dirty sheet crumpled around her flat chest, her yellow fingers pressing the eternal cigarette to her chapped lips, her blue eyes (or were they grey? He didn't know) roaming uselessly about the smoke-filled room. He hated it. He hated the thought of her and her weakness. Yet he'd rather have her than his abusive, lush father any day.

He stood up and began to kick out the indentation that he had made in the bed. Technically, the worn-out lump of mattress was supposed to be shared by the two boys but Merle insisted (with clenched fists) that Daryl sleep on the floor. "It builds character," he had said, flashing that crooked grin of his.

"You sayin' I don't have character?" Daryl had responded with what would become his trademark venom.

"I'm sayin' that right now I have enough character for both of us, lucky for you. But sooner or later you're gonna have to grow some balls."

"Yeah, well balls don't grow on the floor, do they?"

None of his teachers thought to ask why he came to school with a swollen lip the next day. They were all too familiar with the site, not to mention his father's growled responses to their inquiries.

His mother began to hack and cough in a stomach-wrenching way and he went to turn up the radio when a noise outside the house caught his attention. He ran to the window and shoved the cracked blinds aside. As expected, seven rowdy boys in ripped jeans with bare chests rode past his window, hooting and hollering at anything that moved.

"Shit," he sprang away from the window and jumped on the bed, searching for a pack of cigarettes. He found a single carton with a few musty sticks in it. It would have to do. Merle would kill him if he ever found out that he had gone outside to play with the other kids but Daryl couldn't help himself. The sound of bike chains spinning and wild laughter was just too appealing. He donned a plaid jacket and slipped out the window, consequences be damned.

"Hey! Wait up!

The boys wheeled around and raced towards him with huge grins on their faces. They all worshiped his older brother, much to the chagrin of their parents, and by extension they respected him as if he were his brother's second-in-command.

"Hey! It's Daryl Pigskin!"

Of course, that respect was subject to the competitive whims that all of the young boys on his street seemed to have.

They circled around him, kicking up thick clouds of dust as they did so. "What do you have for us today?" asked Bobby, the gangliest of the group. He was only the implied leader because he had the fastest and flashiest bike. Daryl tossed him the pack of cigarettes and watched with satisfaction as the group began to 'ooh' and 'ah' over it. He was fairly sure that the majority of them had never smoked before and was merely obsessing over the pack as a way of pretending that they had. He hoped that the cigarettes and hundreds of other little trinkets that he stole for them would compensate for the fact that he didn't have a bike. Merle thought that bikes were just unnecessary 'machines for pussies' that he could do without. He didn't know about the many times that Daryl had snuck out in the middle of the night and sat on the old broken bike at the garbage dump, his hands wrapped firmly around the handlebars, making 'whooshing' and 'zooming' sounds beneath his breath. The thought of what his brother would do to him if he ever found out that he had snuck out flashed across his mind and he stuffed his hands in his pockets uncomfortably, trying to push the thought away.

Bobby nodded and stuffed the pack in his pocket. "Timmy thinks he found a dead body out near the creek," he informed Daryl. "You wanna come with us?"

"Hell yeah. Let's go."

The kids sped off on their bikes, leaving Daryl to chase after them on short legs. After a while his breath began to come in audible gasps and his pumping legs began to burn and ache but it was worth it to him because every time he caught up to them and ran in their midst the jokes exchanged and obscenities screeched in delight would make him momentarily forget everything: the pain in his legs, the holes in his sneakers, the sweat that dripped into his eyes. Everything seemed to just vanish and, in that one moment, it was easy for him to believe that he was just another carefree kid having fun out in the sun.

"Hey Daryl!" one of the kids slowed down and rode by his side, "yo mama's so fat that when she was diagnosed with a flesh-eating disease, the doctor gave her ten years to live."

"Yeah, well yo mama's so fat she ate the doctor and the ten years, too!"

The boys whooped and howled at the joke like sirens in chains. Daryl found the sudden pitch in their voice to be a bit off and froze, looking around. The others heard it too: an obnoxious whining that grew off of their voices and rose on its own. They all stopped and stared straight ahead.

"M-maybe it's the dead dude, Timmy. He's coming to get you…." Bobby said. Timmy, always the sensitive one, jumped off of his bike and attacked him. The two boys began to roll around in the dirt and paid no more heed to the incessant wailing. By now they all knew where the noise was coming from.

A medium-sized fire truck was coming towards them, going in the direction that they had just come from, followed almost immediately by a small white paramedic van. All of the boys save for the two tussling on the ground stared, enraptured, at the flashing lights and glittering metal of the larger truck as it passed them by. Daryl was about to turn and tell the two boys to knock it off when suddenly he caught the eye of the man driving the paramedic van. The van slowed down as it passed him and for a moment Daryl thought that the man was going to roll down the window and say something to him but suddenly the van sped up and before he knew it both it and the fire truck were out of site. It was strange. Daryl was used to getting funny looks from people in authority (usually because he had his hands in something that he shouldn't) but there was something about the way that the man was looking at him that made him feel funny. It was almost as if he knew something that Daryl didn't.

"Hey you think they're going to pick up another dead body?" Bobby said. By now he had the poor Timmy in a breathless headlock. Daryl shook his head.

"No, stupid. The lights were on."

"Hey Pigskin! I bet they're going to pick up your mom cuz she smokes so much!"

"Man, shut up about my mom!" He spun on his heel and lunged at Bobby. Bobby shouted in terror as Daryl grabbed him by the collar and held his fist a few inches from his face. It was a well-known fact that when the Dixon men fought they fought hard,

"All right, all right!" the kid squealed, "I didn't mean nuthin'! Come on, let me go!" Daryl stared at him, his eyes black and unreadable, before slowly lowering him to the ground. Bobby quickly scrambled away and jumped on his bike, out of reach of the panting boy.

"Maybe we should go and check it out," said Erin, a soft-spoken kid who would have grown up to be the governor of the small town if the future hadn't made a sudden turn for the worst. Bobby nodded.

_Shit_ , Daryl thought. He knew what was coming next.

"Yeah, if we get there in time we might see the body! Come on, y'all!" He turned on his bike and sped away, followed by the other boys. Only Daryl and Erin were left. The two stared at each other before Daryl looked away, his hands jammed in his pockets. "You can ride on the back," Erin said, inching his bike forward. It was obvious by the tremble in his voice that he wasn't too comfortable with the idea. Daryl shook his head. "No, you go on," he said. He snorted and spit in the dry dust, waiting for the damned kid to take his bike and leave but Erin wasn't moving. Daryl looked up at him and frowned. If there was one thing that he hated above anything else it was pity. _Pity makes a man weak, boy_ his father had once told him in a half-drunk stupor, _and a man that is looked at with pity is even_

_weaker._ Right now, pity was written all over Erin's sad little face.

"Go on, get out of here!" Daryl exploded. He ran up and shoved the kid in his chest. Erin stumbled uncertainly upon his bike before regaining his balance, his eyes wide with fright.

"I said go!" Daryl picked up a rock as large as his hand but before he could throw it at him the kid turned tail and sped off as fast as he could. Daryl cursed and threw the rock as far as he could. He wouldn't bother chasing after them. He was too tired. Besides, if those happy-go-lucky jerks weren't going to ride alongside him then they could just go on, then. He didn't care. He began to walk. He still had a long way to go (they had come out quite far) and the road that he was traveling upon was rarely frequented. He suddenly realized just how quiet and empty the world could be. He was used to the constant noise and movement: the drunken hollering of his father, wild kids in the street, his brother thumping around the house. Out there, alone on the yellow road, he realized just how much he had come to accept and even expect those things. If nothing else, just having his brother by his side would suffice. This hot and oppressive silence was just too empty. It gave room to those darker thoughts that were usually kept at bay by the oh-so-familiar noise that kept him awake at night.

After about an hour and a half he reached the first of the houses that bordered his lane. He could see a large group of people further down and thought it strange that so many people should gather to see a sick person or whatever it was that the firemen and paramedics were working with. He figured that he'd just take a peek and then head on home before Merle got back but as he got closer he realized that they were all standing on his lawn. His first thought was that they had gathered to see old Marissa Laney get taken away. She was a bit senile but she was tough-as-nail nonetheless and Daryl thought that it would have to be a pretty good bump to do her in. Then he realized that the two vehicles were parked haphazardly in his driveway and that the people were facing his doorway. _What the hell_ , he thought. He saw his friends spread out along the back of the crowd, stepping on their tiptoes to try and get a better view. Suddenly Erin spotted him and nudged the kid next to him. The kid turned and, as it seemed, a shockwave seemed to have gone through the crowd and they all turned to look at him. There it was. That damned pity again. It was written on every one of their faces. Even Bobby was giving him that infuriating look and when Daryl turned his eyes on him he just stared back with apologetic, almost fearful eyes.

His stomach seemed to drop and he clenched his fists at his sides. His mouth had suddenly gone dry and everywhere he looked it seemed as if the people were waiting for him to do something, their eyes unblinking and cold. He took a tiny step forward and as he did the crowd parted. He could now see a clear shot of his home. The door had been thrown open and he could see men in bunker gear running back and forth in front of his doorway. He took another step forward and then realization hit him. The

firemen and paramedics were there, at _his_ house. Something had happened, something that he wasn't sure he was ready to see.

"Merle?" he called out, but his brother did not step forward from the crowd. They continued to watch him but now they began to whisper. He could hear the concern in their voices. "Merle?!" he called out again. His heart began to beat faster in his throat and he felt panic rising. If only his brother would appear somewhere and throw his arm around his shoulder things would be easier. He'd be able to walk with his head held high into that cursed house that seemed to emanate wickedness and death. But his brother was nowhere to be found (probably locked up in jail at the moment) so Daryl shuffled awkwardly through the crowd, hating them for not providing him with an answer. Finally he reached the gaping door and stepped inside.

It was hot and the air was filled with a light smoke that burned his throat and made his eyes water. He coughed and stumbled forward. His eyes were closed to a near slit and he couldn't see anything but his feet began to move by their own accord, taking him up the creaking stairs, down the hallway, past his own bedroom, until he reached the room all the way at the end of the hall. He heard muffled voices and he pushed the door open. Immediately a sickeningly sweet odor washed over him.

"Can I help you, son?"

The first thing that he saw was the tall fireman, seemingly gigantic in his dusty suit. His face was red and covered in soot and his eyes, when they met with Daryl's, immediately took on a fearful look. And then he saw the ceiling, the char black ceiling above his mother's bed. There had been a fire beneath it. But where was his mother? And then his eyes slowly traveled down to the bed itself. He saw the blankets burned to crispy rags, the crackling pillows, and the mass of fleshy red and black in the center of it all.

"Where's my mom?" he asked in a thick voice. The damn woman must have set the room on fire with one of her eternal cigarettes. Daryl spun around, expecting to find her in one of the corners; wringing her hands and staring at him with yellow eyes. He spun faster and faster, the world around him becoming a catastrophic blur of burning colors, until one of the firemen placed his gloved hands on his shoulders. He said something that was meant to be soothing but Daryl shoved him away.

"WHERE'S MY MOM?!" He asked. He wasn't even conscious of the fact that his heart was beginning to pound painfully again and that tears were beginning to stream down his face. His eyes knew what they had seen but his mind refused to accept it. He rushed at one of the firemen and slammed his fists in his stomach. He needed to …he wanted….he didn't know anymore. He spun around again, his tiny body wracked with a million sobs and stumbled forward towards the bed. "No," he said harshly, "no, no, no." He fell to his knees at the side of the mattress and stared at the burnt mass in the middle. It couldn't have been his mom. The charred, twisted body looked nothing like her and for a second he was able to trick himself into believing that this was all just an elaborate hoax played on him by his asshole friends. But all too soon another wave of logic washed over him and he realized that he was looking at the end of a tormented life.

"MOM!" he suddenly screamed, making the firemen jump. They rushed towards him and grabbed his little arms but he fought back. "MOM! MOM! MOM!"

If screams of torment and agony could wake the dead Daryl Dixon's mother would have sat up, brushed the charred flakes from her arms, and smiled that winning smile that she must have worn a long time ago. He felt nothing, not even the strong arms of the firemen on his wrists as they pulled him bodily from the room, except a lonely anguish that filled his heart and cascaded down his cheeks. He couldn't hear the deafening screams and curses that ripped from his lungs and made the people outside shudder. He couldn't taste the blood and snot that painted his teeth when the firemen clipped him in the mouth with his elbow. Soon he began to choke and sputter on the smoke that made its way into his lungs and for the longest time he could only gasp in pain as he was dragged from the house and set on his back outside. His eyes stared unseeingly at the unjustly bright sun as cough after cough lifted his body from the pavement and slammed him back down again. He wanted to go back in. He wanted to yell some more and curse some more and maybe throw a few punches but he was too weak.

He felt someone nudge him in the side but he simply closed his eyes, his breath becoming slower and slower. He knew someone was standing over him, cursing, telling people to step back, a familiar voice….he closed his eyes and succumbed to the welcoming oblivion.

When he opened his eyes again the sun had gone down and the street was empty. He slowly sat up and tried to get a grip on reality but his vision was still blurry and there was an unceasing ringing in his ears. He snapped his fingers near his ear. Nothing. He looked down and saw the blood running into his lap and briefly wondered who was bleeding and why the hell he had been lying on the ground.

"Well, you look like shit." He looked up and saw his brother sitting beside him wearing a cocky grin on his face. Merle handed him a dirty rag and watched in amusement as he stared dazedly at it.

"What?" he said a bit breathlessly. Merle smirked and shook his head.

"Your nose is bleedin'. And the cut in your lip reopened." Daryl pressed the rag to his lip and looked at his brother. He was slowly beginning to remember what had happened. He had been out with the gang, an ambulance had passed by, he had chased after it, his mom… he spat on the ground. The memory of the events past still pained him like a burning wound but he wouldn't cry anymore. That was another thing about Dixon men. They had at least one good cry in them and then they cried no more.

"It's just you and I now, little brother," Merle said as he leaned back against the porch steps, "no mommy or poppy slowing us down. I got here just in time to see you collapse on the ground like a little pussy. Then they wheeled her body out. It was covered with a sheet and everything. What, did the old woman finally slip herself the knife?"

"She burned to death, you idiot."

"Oh my," Merle said and after that they were silent. Daryl could only wonder at his brother's lack of empathy. It was almost as if he seemed pleased with their mother's passing. Although in his eyes she probably seemed just as useless as the women that he chased and spat after.

"And what about dad?" Daryl asked. Merle shrugged.

"That bastard will come home to an empty house, little brother. No wife or kids to take a beating." It took a moment for Daryl to process what he had just said.

"What, you mean we're running away?"

"I mean I'm going to do what I have to do to take care of you, you little waste of space. And why? Because we gotta stick together. I have your back and you have mine, got that?" He punched him in the shoulder. Daryl stiffened and then nodded.

"Good. You get your stuff packed; we leave as soon as night falls. Hey," he said, forcing Daryl's chin up, "don't worry about mom. It's just us now."

Of course, none of that was to happen. It would be contradictory to say that Daryl was that lucky. Later on that night the police came and picked Merle up for some petty thing or another. In his absence the boys' father returned, drunker than ever having been told the news that his wife was dead. He didn't understand why Daryl hadn't been there to put out the fire in the first place. He then promptly and mercilessly beat the young man senseless. It would be weeks before Merle returned and in that time all thoughts of running away would have dissipated although that was not to say that he, in his own funny ways, was there for his brother at all possible times.

And then, of course, the world went to shit a few years later.


End file.
